Wishful Thinking
by An Fhomhair
Summary: RENT Oneshot, Mark's POV. Basically Mark musing and reminiscing on his friends' deaths. After all, once you've watched your friends die, what else is there to do?


**Disclaimer: Sure, I own RENT. In my daydreams.**

**Foreword: This wasn't intended to be slash, when I wrote it(in fact I can't stand RogerMark, it makes me want to throw a brick at something) but I suppose it could be taken that way.**

December 24th, 3 am. One month ago my life fell into ruin. Fuck my life.

That is to say, Roger Davis died. Although, I think he started to die about two months and twenty-six days before that…shit, it seems like so long ago. Too long ago. Sometimes I think I'm beginning to fade, too, but is it only normal when you've watched your friends die? Is it?

After Angel died, I asked myself if, like my dear mother(ha) said, God was so _good_, then why the hell did _good_ people, good people like Angel die? And Collins, and Mimi, and Roger..

We don't know how Collins died, not exactly. We were just sitting at the loft-me, and Mimi and Roger, Maureen, and Joanne. The phone rang; I picked it up.

"Do you know a Tom Collins?"

I felt a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach, a familiar feeling to any New Yorker, and knew the feeling was on my face, because everybody else looked alarmed. "Y-yes…"

"This is Police Chief O'Connor, with the city police. One of our officers found him on 14th street-" I knew what he was about to say, and as despair set in, I dropped the phone and bit my lip harshly. Joanne, businesswoman as always, picked it up.

"Hello?" she said, her voice shaking slightly-from seeing the look on my face, more than likely. Damn, I was trying hard not to cry… "Yes…oh God, no…" Roger's eyes widened in concern, and Mimi burst into tears. Maureen held her against her shoulder, though she was beginning to cry herself, I saw. I stood against the wall, my head in my hands. It wasn't right that he should go this way, dammit. It just wasn't right.

We buried Collins next to Angel; Benny paid-thank God for Benny-and tried to go on with life. It didn't work. A couple months later, I walked into the loft in high spirits, only to discover Roger bent over Mimi on the couch, sobbing, stroking her hair, whispering.

"Rog…is she…"

"No." he almost whispered, his voice hoarse. "Call Maureen and Joanne's number, they'll want to see her before…" fresh tears flowed down his face, and I felt pain tugging at my heart. I could never stand to see Roger cry, not since I'd met him. Somebody rapped on the door.

"Maybe we won't have to call." I went to the door, opened it-who was there but Benjamin Coffin, III? Shit. Why did Benny have to turn up right now…

"What the hell do you want, now!" Roger burst out angrily. I can hear the grief in his voice, the grief he's trying to mask with the anger that always makes him come off as such a cocky bastard.

"Please, don't!" Mimi reprimanded him weakly, and Roger turned back to her. Benny took in the scene; once I was sure he knew what was going on, I grabbed the phone and dialed. One ring. Two-

"Hello?"

"Maureen? Come quick, it's Mimi, she's-" Maureen didn't need a second warning. The receiver clicked as I heard her yell "Pookie! We have to go!" I turned back to the three at the couch. "Mimi, hold on." I cried desperately. "Maureen and Joanne are coming to…"

Too late.

Roger sits, tears streaming from his eyes, rocking Mimi back and forth in his lap but it's no use-her eyes are closed forever. Benny looks on, his face pained. He bows his head. How could we let her go? I close my eyes, too, feeling hot tears prickle behind my eyelids, until I hear Roger.

"Who do you think you are, leaving me alone with-" sobs rack his body and he breaks off, unable to finish.

A month later we're sitting on the same couch. Roger's the same person, but he's been thinner, weaker, more like somebody with AIDS ever since Mimi died. "At least you're still here." I say, trying to look on the bright side. "At least you're not going to die…sometime soon…."

"Mark." He said patronizingly. He was trying to be gentle, but the truth was too cold to be masked. "I'm dying. You know I'm dying."

The words stung. "Stop it, Roger! Don't say that, you'll be okay, I swear you'll be okay!" I knew I sounded like a complete idiot, and yet I had to say it. Of course he wasn't okay; he had AIDS and it was destroying him. Shit, why was I bothering to fool myself? It seemed like Roger could read my mind-

"Don't bother acting like it's okay, like we're all just fine and dandy, becauseit's fucking NOT!" he yelled, stomping into his room and slamming the door.

I sank down onto the couch-and I started to cry. I sobbed harder than when Mimi died. It took me a second to figure out just why the hell I was crying, but I got it pretty quick. Roger's yelling at me stung, and what he was saying and the fact that he actually knew what he was talking about made the burn worse. Roger, my best friend, was slowly fading away in front of me, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. That must be the worst feeling in the world.

Now he's gone, too, and I'm sitting here, alone. I pile of tapes lie on the table in front of me; I'm trying to decide what to do with them. Who would care to see them besides me, Maureen, Joanne, and maybe even Benny…and right now I just don't feel like it. I lean back against the beaten old couch with a remorseful sigh, wishing It all could have been different, and wishing that right now I wasn't sitting in this old loft- alone.

"For someone who longs for a community of his own-who's with his camera, alone?"

Dammit, Roger, you're right. I am alone.

-finis-

**A/N: Please tell me how you like it! I was in the mood for angst after I found out my friend was moving, so I wrote this…it's my first RENTfic…but yeah.**

**And, yes, I do believe Roger would say something like 'Fine and dandy'.**

**Now you have permission to review…which I know you're just dying to do, RIGHT? Oh I knew I was right. Have fun.**

**Le gra go deo,**

**Eponine**


End file.
